Thursday, April 20, 2006

Perhaps the wind will move the flapof the GRAND OPENING sign above the florist/deli next door that makes sandwiches named after all the presidents, and tomorrow the woman withthe artificial heart will find herperfect housewarming plant for hernew small guest. I want to be herewhen that happens, I want to cherishmy own ninety-nine cent heart.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Quiet now, the dreamland bed buoys me. When L comes in, he puts his cold motor hands on my back to wake me on purpose. I dreamt last night that kittens were being born all over and I could not contain them. When I woke he was gone. I believe he had said, We sleep as a team, and I do not know if it was a dream.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

The lady will have a white wine spritzer and the nacho cone, followed by a dune buggy ride and a candlelit screening of Romancing the Butt. Sweetie, the boy who got you pregnant and nearly gave you herpes in a three-way oughta gotten his ass beat like a bass drum at half-time. Your tits are fine. So’s your chin. Promise you’ll keep smooching pets of all species even turtles. Promise you’ll keep leaning in for the pink velvet promise of smooch. Let time turn the hairy, sour air right and nice because it really is, you know.

Friday, April 14, 2006

I just needed to check in and say, wow, writing a poem a day is way more difficult than I thought. I mean, I'm loving it--and I LOVE to see Jen's every day, but I'm surprised how much time it takes to complete a poem (or complete it enough to post it). Everyone else in National Poetry Write More Month seems to rockin' it hard core, and don't worry, I'm not giving up! I'm just calling in to say, geez!

Thursday, April 13, 2006

With pillow on the floor I could hear the parrotsnoring too suddenly I felt/knew/understood I was sleeping in a big hand thought maybe it's the very same hand thatcradles the Burt Reynolds tribute band (!)

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

My mother never told me that I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

His name is Mark, he’s from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and he’s a great guy but check it out: he’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

He was in town, called and told me his band was playing at the Lakeside Lounge. I figured they’d suck and I had other plans so I told him sorry I can’t make it but what’s the name of your band? He said Hooper and I said cool let’s have dinner tomorrow. Then I went home and looked them up and I was like, holy mother of God—I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

There’s no work to it he says. Well they work hard on the music, but then some dude will come up before the show and say Hey, I love Burt, I’ve got a smoke machine—you guys wanna use it? The universe cradles them adoringly in its hand like…like what? I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

He says the law of the stuntman comes in two-parts: Know when to hold on, and when to let go. I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

There are songs for Burt of course, for Sally, for Dom and for Loni. I ask, are there songs for Jerry? No. That’s more of a side project. I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

I have been listening to the same Nico song (sounds like a cartoon cow on peyote) for three days straight. Well flip that record over and how. I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

It’s not cheesy he assures me. The songs don’t come out and say, “Liftin’ weights and drinkin’ beer is something I like to do.” They talk more about the soul from Burt’s (aka Sonny’s) point of view. Would you risk your life for $50,000? What if your selfless act spared the life of your friend? Is it truly a selfless act if you get paid and don’t die? I have no idea how to answer these questions. I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

Mourning morning and night. I swore no joy would land nor stay. Now I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

This poem should be one thousand pages long, full of pictures I’ve never seen, and ideas so ready for the world they’re born with mustaches. Can’t you feel it? It’s like the sun on tight jeans. I have a cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

It’s not because it makes everything bearable or funny for a while or forever, it’s because it means a thing can happen and when the world's hell-bent on breaking the land-speed record for undoing itself that’s the best thing about being in Burt Reynolds tribute band says my cousin who’s in a Burt Reynolds tribute band.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Bring me water and turnipsand coarse sea salt and the sliverof the moon that hovered overmy house as a child, the oneI made wishes on, the one I swore would bear me witness.Bring me all of this to makethe perfect meal that requiresno prayer before hand, the mealthat is the prayer itself. Let meeat my wishes and swallowthem whole, their sweet tastestill so impossible and full.

I just walked to the post office to pick up my books. It's raining hard outside. Perfect day for a reading. Perfect day for a warm afternoon cocktail and a poem.

List of things to do today:

-laundry-write poem-buy brother birthday present-make chocolate chip cookies with L for Rob's birthday-determine life plan-map out the next 15 years of my life-have lunch with Jen and L before reading-go to reading at 2pm-See Dr. Cocktail aka Shafer Hall

Friday, April 07, 2006

Again, with the animalstalking in my sleep.Last night a spanielwith a long face likea relative, helped me gather my children together. Every one witha lunch and a bag ofglass fish beads. I said,“It feels nice to haveyou help me with these.”And she answered,“We make the perfect team,” andmoved my little humansout the door withher leash in her mouthand of course, I followed, obediently.

Tues, July 11th, 7:00PM: Acentos in the Bronx (this is a great reading series and the people are amazing). We will miss Oscar Bermeo, but he's off to Califas and we know Rich Villar is always marvelous.

Tues, August 8th, 6:30PM: Bryant Park through the Acadamy of American Poets with Thomas Sayers Ellis and Peter Covino!

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

In my deep dream last night, I couldfinally talk to birds (I say finally there because apparently I had been waiting a long time), and one was sitting in a littlehole and speaking so beautifully. I can't remember ever hearing something so beautiful.I began to cry and when it asked mewhat was wrong, I said, "It's just so nice to speak with you."

"Roses are reddish. Violets are blueish. If it wasn't for Jesus, we'd all be Jewish." —Deb Stein

Would you consider doning the hippy skirt with jingle bells and fringy boots you wore twenty years ago to this evening's soiree? How about a woven yarn bracelet, or three? Or filling the nearly-closed holes up your lobes with yin-yang studs and cheap hoops? Yeah, I didn't think so. You've probably a more tastefulensemble already set on the closet door.

It's your day to do as you choose (you seldom overdo or underdo anymore, though—more just-rightdo—little dishes of chips or pickles set out with perfect timing, seltzer to wash it down—if it weren't for your flurry about the burners, I might've starved this winter) but please tonight do the Toaster Dance, take a puffed-up stranger down a notch with "Easy, sizzle tits" for me—

as your generosity's boundless as the dirty jokesyou know when and how to place just so—like fuzzy, goofball flowers set beside sleek reeds in a sublime ikebana bouquet.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Love, try to remember that you and I are dying.Watch the thick white blossoms fill in the concretecracks next to the dry cleaners where they are pilinglike unearthly fabric. Maybe no one will seeand grind them into the soot beneath their feetthey soon will become. Maybe they will not smell to the unobservant stranger, like the sweetcorn in the field and he will not be compelled.But Love, remember, that even Adam finally fell.Try to remember that we are dying. The goodstory is not always as beautiful as we wouldwant it, but it is the only story that we can tell.You may think I am cruel or unforgiving,But Love, remember, tonight, we are living.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

All winter the road has been paved in rain, holding its form as if it made its own direction.

We have a lot of these days. Or not.

A woman in a car staring out, her hands going numb. When did the world begin to push us so quickly?

A blue jay flies low over her into the madrones. She can still see it, its bright movements rocking a branchsurely delighted that it matches the sky.

The honest clouds.

A trembling tenderness grows like a fluttering in her hand.

She wants to hold it in her arms, but not pin it down, the way the tree holds the jay generously in itswillful branches. The spring wind is blowingthrough her—pulling the dead debris free from her limbs.

She cannot decide what she desires, but today it is enough that she desires and desires and desires. That she is a body